Peonies and Moonlight
by dansunedisco
Summary: [Yuugao centric.] The first time she met him she felt nothing until, finally, something sparked. The last time she met him she felt a spark until, finally, she felt nothing at all.


**Warnings: **Spoilers up to the Chuunin Arc. (Dealing with) character death.  
**Disclaimer: **I do not own Naruto.

**Peonies and Moonlight **

* * *

The first time she met him, she felt nothing until, finally, something sparked.

The last time she met him, she felt a spark until, finally, she felt nothing at all.

* * *

His body had been found leaned up against a wall with crows picking at his innards. And for all the reactions she was expecting, a dull, resounding shock throughout her body was not one of them. Her mask hid her drawn face, her parted lips. It was a cold comfort; dignity was beginning to rank low now, as his blood began to curl around the pavement. The tension between her shoulders began to drain away the longer she kept her eyes trained on his body. Apathy, falsely conjured or not, had always been her calling card.

She was educated in the ways of the dead—didn't need to dissect him with a scalpel to effectively see what would dissolve first inside his decaying corpse. Rigor mortis had come and passed through his limbs. It left him lax. His tendons were loose and hanging around the bone covered in muscle, skin. She couldn't see this happening, except that parts of him were gaping and she could.

Yuugao knew his body like she knew her own. And his would soon deteriorate if nature would have its way. And maybe, if she looked at him long enough, in the most scientific way possible, all the feelings she harbored for him would decompose with him. If it'd be enough to usher away the slowly rising panic, the realization, then maybe she'd be able to deal with the emptiness; the emptiness of never having him, never caring.

Death brushed him an ashen color she had never seen him wear in life. He had always been a pale man and, sometimes, his lips would turn a tinge of purple when his coughing got the best of his lungs. It was not a healthy sign, she thought to herself whenever he excused himself to the bathroom. Sometimes he'd come back to bed with a veiled smile minutes later. Sometimes she'd fall asleep to an empty bed, but a room smothered in harsh coughs and the clatter of the medicine cabinet. Both of them were too proud to breech the subject of his health then, but now she just felt like the fool. She knew this would happen. That one day it would take him when he was expecting it the least. She knew it, but she was too proud to admit she cared.

And now he was propped up against a wooden wall, about ready to get zipped up in a black bag for examination by the coroners. He may not have been expecting death, but she knew it was something he had dealt with every day of his poor health. It was ironic, just a little, noted the part of her unable to touch reality. It was surreal, the whole situation. Zipping up Hayate. She would've laughed if it weren't so glaringly real.

If not for the pools of crusted blood soaking his flak jacket, it looked like he had stopped on his way home to take a rest along the road. If she ignored the smell, the way his eyes were dried over and staring at her shins, a silent apology hanging on his blue lips, he looked peaceful. Almost, but never quite reaching it. She was naïve to look at the situation that way, because he was dead and she gave up on happy endings when she was eight.

It all came down to care, though. Yuugao knew she cared much too much for him. ANBU were advised to stay clear of emotional attachments; the mortality rate in that division was staggeringly high. Better soldiers were made from focused goals, not love and tender emotions and smiles. Monsters were often made from the same brew. Yuugao could name a few people that blurred that line and, at one point, she had considered herself one of them. But Hayate had shifted her goals. Even now, when she should have been considering how his death would weigh on Konoha, all she can think about is who'd killed him.

Yes, her focus was shifting—and strangely enough, she didn't care. Something was replacing her numbness. She was thinking about hurting, and it almost felt good.

* * *


End file.
